


Everybody Lives

by orphan_account



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen, Multi, Redemption, Rescue Missions, Rivaled Anders, Spirit Cole (Dragon Age), The Fade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-02
Updated: 2015-09-20
Packaged: 2018-04-12 12:54:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4479953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the wake of Hawke's sacrifice at Adamant, Anders appears at Skyhold - without Vengeance, without his magic, and very, very weak.  Inquisitor Trevelyan offers him redemption and recovery, and puts him in Vivienne's care - at Vivienne's insistence.  Anders wants, badly, to be a good man, to make up for what he's done, and Vivienne is determined to see he gets there - under her terms, of course.  And Cole, well, he might be able to help too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Backdrifts (Honeymoon is Over)

**Author's Note:**

> Some notes about this setting:  
> \- Hawke was intimate with Fenris, but the break-up was permanent.  
> \- Hawke rivaled Anders and managed to convince him to call off his plans to blow up the chantry, but Vengeance had other ideas.  
> \- Inquisitor Trevelyan is a Rift Mage that did not romance anybody, and she drank from the Well of Sorrows.  
> \- Leliana is Divine, and a kind one at that.  
> \- The title is not a lie.
> 
> A disclaimer: I am not here to justify Anders' actions, nor do I wish to bash him. This story will be one of hard-won redemption, not easy apologies.
> 
> Chapter titles are songs from Radiohead's album "Hail to the Thief."
> 
> I hope you all enjoy this, wherever it goes!

None of Hawke’s companions seemed to arrive at Skyhold through conventional means.  
  
Isabela was the first, and she more or less walked in through the front door and immediately took to finding Varric. True, she wasn’t an unknown presence, and Varric was able to meet her easily enough, but she still didn’t bother at all with the well-prepared and present arrivals office.  
  
“That idiot,” Isabela told him, halfway through a mug of ale and blinking through tears. “Isn’t that just like her? Being the big martyr, just because she can.”  
  
“Well, she went as she came: saving our asses,” Varric replied, which brought bittersweet chuckles out of the both of them.  
  
Merrill came, next. Through circumstances she likely couldn’t explain, she was found wandering in the hold’s garden, her fingers tangled into each other. “I’m not quite sure I’m in the right place,” she explained to a Sister that eventually approached her. She later sat Merrill down with a cup of tea and assurances that they’d find where she belonged, and Varric came not long after.  
  
“Hey there, Daisy,” he said, gently.  
  
Merrill’s smile was glossed in a cool sadness. “Is it true, then, that she’s really gone?” she said.  
  
All Varric could do was nod. “We’re going to take care of you here, though,” he continued. “I’ll even get you a new ball of string.”  
  
Merrill tried to laugh, but ended up tearing up a little instead. Varric held her for as long as she needed him to.  
  
Fenris tried to keep himself from being seen for as long as he could, which ended up being quite a long while, all things considered. Varric woke to a pale blue glow in his room, and saw Fenris huddled in the corner, on a chair. His tattoos weren’t giving off a strong light, but the glow made him squint as he sat up. “Fenris…?”  
  
“I wasn’t going to stay unless I knew you were here,” Fenris replied. He had one leg drawn to his chest, his hands lightly clasped on his knee.

“Well, you found me,” Varric said.  
  
Fenris didn’t look at him. “What was it that killed her?” he finally said. The light from his body intensified, and the grip on his knee tightened.  
  
“Fear demon, they tell me. She and a few others wound up in the Fade and she fought the thing off so they could make it out.”  
  
“Of course she would,” Fenris replied. He closed his eyes.

“I miss her too, Fenris,” Varric said.  
  
The glow of Fenris’s tattoos lessened, and he took a deep breath in. He kept his eyes closed.  
  
Aveline and Bethany sent letters back, in turn, though Kirkwall and the gently-growing College kept them from traveling. They promised to visit when they could, if at least to reconnect and find solace with the others that Hawke had left behind. Bethany, especially.  
  
Nobody else wrote back. Nobody else came.

And things… settled. Things stayed.

Isabela struck up a quick and boozy friendship with The Iron Bull and Sera. The former, mostly, because she could keep up with his drinking and ended up paying for their bar tab when she couldn’t, though the deal was mutual and settled by Bull almost as often. The latter was because she was a very talented recreational kisser and Sera liked the way that Isabela smelled - like trouble and spices, in Sera’s own words.

Merrill buried herself in research, after Varric showed her Morrigan’s Eluvian. He’d hoped it would cheer her up, and it did, but she would be gone for days at a time, with the other mages in the library. When she came up for air, her thoughts fluttering with discovery, she tended to Skyhold’s stray cats.

And Fenris found himself in an unlikely sort-of friendship with one Dorian Pavus. This was a careful accident of a thing, starting with Josephine offering Fenris her services in seeing to the ruination of Danarius’s posthumous reputation, and that of anyone allied with him, Tevinter or otherwise. Fenris accepted the offer, albeit with clear and biting skepticism, and was more than a little surprised when news of scandals and embarrassments began arriving from Tevinter. Fenris, naturally, had to ask how this was managed, and that was where Dorian came in. In name only, at first, but they met eventually. Fenris offered no thanks and Dorian expected none, but Fenris was increasingly seen stalking about in the library, talking to Dorian when it pleased him.

These were the three that came, and stayed. And no others.  
  
Varric had written a letter for him, the last one. He’d held on to it long after sending the ones to Bethany and Fenris and Merrill, the short message sealed in wax and lying in wait on his desk.

_A. -_

_We lost Hawke._

_If you have nowhere else to go, head to Skyhold. There are people there who will make sure there won’t be trouble. You won’t be a danger with them._

_\- V._

And one morning, Varric woke up, gave the letter to Leliana, and let her do the rest. He shared a good few pints of ale with Isabela, later that night, and it still took a while for him to fall asleep afterward.

In the end, he decided that, while the last thing Skyhold needed was a man like Anders within its walls, it was better that than having him loose and uncharted. Leliana would at least be able to keep an eye on him, even though he’d asked her not to tell him what she found.

Even if Anders didn’t go to Skyhold, Varric managed to convince himself that he’d done the right thing. But he still hoped that Anders would never come.  
  
\--

“Name?”

“Hans.”  
  
“Where are you coming from, Hans?”

“Free Marches.”

“And what brings you to Skyhold?”  
  
“I received a letter. I was told this was a safe place for me.”  
  
“That’s what we aim for, Hans.” Sister Harmonia smiled as she jotted down the information for the new arrival in the receiving office, and she tried to keep the smile in place as she looked up.  
  
Considering the man’s appearance, this was a difficulty. He had lank, greasy hair that might have been yellow, and a similarly unattended beard. Dark, bruise-like shadows lined his eyes. He was also, quite literally, wearing rags, though the fabric had once been quite fine, if the frayed embroidery was any indication. He was a man that looked thoroughly used, exhausted.  
  
“I’m… sure there’s a place for you here,” she continued, and preoccupied herself with the paperwork for a short while longer. “Now, why don’t I get an escort for you to take you to temporary housing? I’m sure we have a cot for you available.”

Hans shifted his head in what might have been a nod.  
  
With a well-practiced wave of her hand, she got the attention of another Sister, who went to get a guard.  
  
Some time passed. Uncomfortably. The man named Hans did not speak, and he had a distant, vacant stare, his eyes fixed somewhere near her hands. It was a look of empty hopelessness, a look that many people had worn in the darkness after Haven.  
  
“/.Terribly sorry for the delay, Sister Harmonia, there was a scuffle at the Herald’s Rest…” The younger Sister returned with an impressively-set man. “I found Knight-Commander Cullen, though, he said he didn’t mind.”  
  
“Oh, Ser, you really didn’t have to,” Sister Harmonia began, until she noticed Cullen’s face flare with anger.  
  
And Hans was standing, sighing, still focused on the wood of the table. “Ah. It figures that you would be here.”  
  
“Knight-Commander…?” said the younger Sister.  
  
Hans held out his hands, palm-down, his fingers limp. “I expect you’ll want to arrest me, then.”  
  
Cullen did not wait another moment. With a forceful, angular blow, he forced Hans against the table, slamming his chest against the wood. He had the man’s hands behind his back in a matter of seconds. Sister Harmonia’s ink bottle threatened to spill, and she grabbed it with both hands. “Knight-Commander! What are you doing?”  
  
“Heretic, I arrest you in the name of the Inquisition, and you shall stand trial for your crimes at the mercy of Inquisitor Trevelyan.” Cullen’s words passed through clenched teeth. His face was furious and red.  
  
The apostate, Hans, did not resist, or even react. In all honesty, that only upset Sister Harmonia more. “Knight-Commander, what are you doing?”

“Arresting the man that destroyed the Kirkwall Chantry.”  
  
Anders did not resist, and cold iron was clasped around his wrists.

\--  
  
Anders had only one visitor, for a while, before the Inquisitor came to view him. It was a scrawny, strange boy wearing a large hat that largely concealed his face. He paced the hallway just outside his cell, pausing at strange intervals, before coming to rest by the door, sitting with his back to the bars. He didn’t say anything. Anders said nothing back.  
  
The boy remained when a small company of people arrived at Anders’ cell, though they largely ignored him. Anders supposed it was for a reason.  
  
Cullen was at the front of them, along with a woman with cropped hair and features like hard, broken stone – another templar, from the looks of her. They were accompanied by a woman in gold, possibly Antivan, and another, who was the palest woman Anders had ever seen.

She had the features of a Rivaini, broad-nosed and round, but she was all white and pink instead of brown and black, and her hair looked like undyed wool. Her eyes were gently-sloped, almost sleepy, and the color of water. She was also the only mage among them, if her staff was any indication.  
  
Varric was with them, as well. Anders couldn’t read his face.  
  
“Lady Inquisitor, I present to you the apostate Anders, charged with the destruction of the Kirkwall Chantry and other war-related atrocities,” Cullen said. He sounded barely restrained.  
  
“I see,” said the pale woman – the Inquisitor, he had to suppose.  
  
“While you do have the right to judge him here, Inquisitor, I shall remind you that you have every right to send him to Kirkwall for judgment by the authorities there,” Cullen continued, stiffly.  
  
“Thank you, Cullen,” the Inquisitor replied. She blinked a few times, tilting her head, observing him. “Anders, is it?”  
  
“If you like,” he replied.

“What brings you to Skyhold, Anders?”  
  
“I was sent a letter,” Anders said. “I don’t know how I was found.”

“You have my former spymaster to thank for that,” the Inquisitor said, placidly.

Anders searched, idly, for the letter in his pocket. “I was… told I wouldn’t be a danger to anyone here.”  
  
“Provided you do not come here with the intent of harming others, there is no reason to believe you would be a danger,” the Inquisitor continued.  
  
“But I am a danger. I tried to help, and I...” Anders found the letter - Varric’s letter - and held it, weakly, out. “Stop me. Please.”  
  
“…this is the mage that started the war?” the templar-woman said, her lip curling.

Anders kept his eyes to the floor.  
  
The Inquisitor took his letter through the bars of the cell and turned it over in her hands once, twice. The paper was badly-wrinkled. “I’ve been told that you are bonded with a spirit,” she said, after a pause. “Is this true?”  
  
“No. Not any longer.” It was the boy who interrupted. He was drawn into himself, now, his head tilted in conversation. “He is missing.”  
  
Quite strangely, everyone but the Inquisitor seemed to suddenly notice he was there. “Kid? When did you…” Varric shook his head. “Never mind. Missing?”  
  
“Someone has… separated the two of you. Apart, away, alone,” the boy replied. He was rocking in place, slightly, where he sat. “There is no Vengeance left in you.”  
  
“You two were… separated?” Varric said. “You and Justice?”  
  
“I don’t remember,” Anders replied. He found his pose mirroring the boy’s, pulling his knees to his chest on the floor. “I’ve forgotten a lot of things.”  
  
The Inquisitor turned her head just slightly. “Cole, what do you make of this?” she said.  
  
“There is a hole in him. She was beginning to fill it, to feel it, but now everything is gone,” the boy, Cole, said. “No longer revenge, but now regret, remorse.”

“You regret your actions?” the Inquisitor said.

“I didn’t mean for any of this to happen,” Anders said, murmuring.

The Inquisitor took a while to respond. “Very well, then,” she finally said. “Anders of Kirkwall, you shall be held here and monitored until the time comes for your trial. In the meantime…” She tilted her head again, almost bird-like. “Cullen, see to it that this man is taken care of. And washed, preferably.”

“ _Inquisitor!_ ”

She blinked, slowly, unaffected, not even looking at him. “Yes, Cullen?”

“This man is - responsible for the deaths of hundreds - _thousands_ of people, and you’re just going to give him a _bath?!_ ” Cullen’s voice was clotted with outrage.

“This man is in no condition to stand trial,” the Inquisitor replied. “And he shall stand trial for his crimes, but only once he is of sounder mind and body.” She looked at Cullen, there. Her voice was calm and slow on the surface, but radiated hot authority underneath. “Am I understood?”

“...yes, Inquisitor,” Cullen said, disagreeing in everything but his words.

“On further thought, I’ll see to this man’s care myself,” the Inquisitor said. “Cullen, I think you’re better off telling Sister Harmonia that the arrest of this man here was a case of mistaken identity. After all, this man is not bonded with a spirit. He doesn’t exactly fit the description of the apostate that destroyed the chantry.”

“...right. I’ll see to that immediately, Lady Inquisitor,” Cullen replied, nodding in place of a bow. His face was slightly red with anger and embarrassment.

“Cassandra, you are also dismissed,” the Inquisitor continued. “Josephine, I’d like to discuss our plans further in your office. And, Varric…?” The hard heat in her eyes cooled. “Take all the time you need.”

“Thanks, Boss,” Varric said.

The templar-woman made a hard noise of disapproval, and turned on her heel as she left, with Cullen shuffling behind her. The Inquisitor and the gold woman followed suit, though with a bit more grace. Varric’s letter went with them.

And Anders was left with Varric, and the strange boy, Cole.

Anders couldn’t look at either of them. He kept his eyes half-focused on the straw in a corner of the cell.

The silence was agony. Anders would have preferred a lecture. “You wrote to tell me she was gone,” he finally said.

“She’d have wanted you to know,” Varric replied.

Anders sighed. “Of course. She’d know it would hurt me.”

“...hurt you.” Varric sounded skeptical, yet concerned.

“She was always against my cause. She never supported me. And she was _right._ ” Anders pressed his chin to his chest, making himself smaller. “I killed her.”

“...look, I really don’t think you’re directly responsible for what… happened to her,” Varric said. “I mean, I didn’t even tell you how-”

“I caused a war. She’d still be in Kirkwall if it wasn’t for me,” Anders muttered. “It’s all my fault…”

Varric took a deep breath in, then out. “I’ll think I’ll try talking to you after you’ve… had some time to get settled,” he said. “Kid, are you…?” He trailed off, looking in Cole’s direction, but not at him. He sighed, shook his head, and left.

Cole remained where he sat, swaying gently to some unheard rhythm.

“She wanted to help you. Not see you suffer,” he said, after a still and stifling silence.

Anders looked up, a question on his lips, but the boy had disappeared into the distant hallway.

Truth, gnawing and insistent, settled deep into his chest.

\--

The Inquisitor returned for Anders a good while later, and she had another woman with her, whom Anders did not recognize. She was intimidatingly tall, this woman, and her skin was dark and smooth.

“Anders?” The Inquisitor sounded almost gentle. Anders knew better. “I have someone to introduce to you. This is Madame Vivienne, one of the mages here at Skyhold. She is going to oversee your recovery until your trial.”

“Charmed,” Vivienne said. Her chin was raised with appraisal; approval and disapproval mingled on her face.

Anders didn’t say anything. The Inquisitor took a key from a chain on her belt and opened the cell door.

Vivienne approached him, and she reached out her hand in one fluid, graceful moment. “On your feet, dear. We have lots of work to do.”

Anders was still.

“Oh, come now, darling, do you _really_ want to spend any more time down here?” Vivienne continued, and she clicked her tongue. “I have a bath drawn for you that is _not_ getting any warmer. The longer you wait, the less-pleasant this will be for the _both_ of us.”

“You are not my prisoner, Anders,” the Inquisitor said. “You won’t be brought back to this cell.”

Anders considered this. He held out his hand.

Vivienne let out a warm, single, satisfied laugh. “There. That wasn’t so hard, was it?” she said, and she pulled him to his feet.

The three of them proceeded down a series of corridors that seemed to twist unnecessarily, going through narrow doors and half-hallways until they reached an unnervingly empty cluster of rooms.

“I’ve got it from here, dear,” Vivienne said, batting her hand as she opened one of the doors. “Go enjoy the rest of your day.”

The Inquisitor blinked, once, twice, then nodded. “Very well,” she said. “If you need anything, you know where I am.” And without another word, she turned and walked back down the hallway and out of sight.

“Well, now that _that’s_ out of the way, let’s get started,” Vivienne said.

The bath was a lot hotter than Anders was expecting. He couldn’t decide if it was truly the heat of the water, or if it had just been that long since he’d bathed.

Vivienne did her work in an impartial, professional manner, even as she undressed Anders and set him in the tub, much like a child. Her gaze did not linger anywhere. She put a smock on, over her robes, and after rolling up the sleeves, she proceeded to scrub him down.

After rinsing his hair for a second time, Vivienne sighed and shook her hands to loosen them. “My _goodness_ , dear, have you been living in a sewer?” she said. Her tone was almost curious, to the point where it felt like a genuine question rather than an insult.

“I don’t know,” Anders said. “I don’t remember.”

“Really,” Vivienne said, lightly.

“I’m not… lying,” Anders said. His shoulders hunched. “Vengeance, the… spirit that shared my body. He… started taking over. And then he started… making me sleep. And now I don’t remember what he did or where he went. What I do remember…”

Blood and bodies and blackness. Anders lowered his head, and his body tensed at the memory.

“Poor thing,” she said, possibly meaning it. “And how did you manage to rid yourself of it?”

“I don’t remember.”

Vivienne gave a light, musical sigh. “Pity,” she said. “Most abominations don’t have the luxury of returning to normal. Would be nice to know how you did it.”

Anders didn’t say anything in return, but he agreed.

Truly, his memories after Kirkwall were shadowy, blurred things. Fire, mostly, and yelling, before Vengeance and his darkness swallowed him whole.

And then, without warning, Vengeance was gone. Anders knew, he could feel, that his body was his own again. It was a kind of lightness or coolness, like smothered skin freed from cloth and clothing. He remembered wandering, as he came to this realization, and continuing on, unaffected.

He wondered, sometimes, if whatever separated him and Vengeance had also made him Tranquil. He wasn’t bothered by the possibility, which was fair enough evidence in and of itself, and he had no need or desire to use any magic. He had no staff for the purpose, anyways. It had been years since he’d last dreamed.

And yet, there was a low and constant ache in his gut, dark and familiar and knowing, like an old and bitter lover. A feeling that always, always returned at the end of every triumph, almost comforting in its consistency. It didn’t have a name, but he knew it well, this assurance that everything good that happened to him was undeserved and temporary. That he was better off not even trying.

That remained. That grounded him. And Varric’s letter only made it stronger.

Vivienne shaved him, after she dried him and dressed him in a cool linen tunic and trousers. The razor was silver and caught flashes of gold light when Vivienne rinsed the soap off of it. She was silent in her work, and her eyes were narrow with focus.

Anders let his eyes wander as she worked. There were no windows in the underground room, and the candlelight was soft amber. Combined with the gentle smell of the lather, Anders felt himself relaxing, even growing tired.

And then he saw the boy in the corner. He’d appeared quite suddenly, in the space of a glance, and held himself shyly, as if he were waiting to speak. Something in him seemed familiar - the hat, maybe.

“There we go, all done.” Vivienne stepped back and nodded as she looked over her work. “Hm. You know, if you put in the effort to maintain it, I think you’d look lovely with beard. Just around the mouth, mind you, you have such a delicate face.”

Anders rubbed his chin. His skin felt alien and new. “Who is that?” he said, leaning a little to look past Vivienne’s shoulder.

“Hm?”

“That boy, there.” Anders gestured toward him. “I saw him when I came in.”

Vivienne looked over her shoulder, and her face grew pinched. “Is he a pale little thing with an absurd hat?”

“Um… yes.”

Vivienne sighed, and she turned around, putting one hand on her hip. “Now, I’d hardly expect for something like _you_ to understand,” she said, in a loud, imperious voice, “but it is the _height_ of rudeness to interrupt a person’s _toilette._ Now, shoo.” She waved her hand to dismiss him, as if he were a stray cat or some other benign intrusion.

“Sorry…” Cole’s voice wavered, a half-whisper, and he backed out of the room and through the door, which Anders could have sworn had been closed.

“He wasn’t… being a bother,” Anders began, but his voice trailed off as Vivienne looked at him with narrowed, cat-curious eyes.

“You could see him.” Somehow this was both a statement and a question.

“Well… yes,” Anders replied. An anxious little twist hummed in his chest.

“How interesting…” Vivienne’s expression curled with curiosity, and Anders’ nervousness swelled.

“How is that interesting…?”

“ _That_ little creature is a spirit that fancies itself somewhat human,” Vivienne said. “And it has this vexing habit of not letting people see it unless it’s with the Inquisitor. It seems you’re an exception.”

Spirit to human to demon to abomination to Anders’ chest seizing with dry, strange fear. “There’s… there’s a demon just… wandering around in here?”

He must have looked worse than he felt, because Vivienne’s face softened, and she laid a hand on his shoulder. “Oh, darling, it’s an unpleasant little thing, but it's really rather harmless,” she said. “The most I’ve seen it do is leave little knick-knacks on your bed that it thinks you’ll like. Rather like a cat, but with fewer dead birds.”

Anders was too distracted to be comforted. He was breathing, rapidly, and his skin felt cold. “How is it here, though, has it - stolen someone’s body, or…?”

“Oh, goodness, no,” Vivienne said. Her voice kept getting quieter and quieter. “It _looks_ like a boy because it _thinks_ it’s a boy. Nobody’s here’s been _possessed,_ I assure you.”

Cole had come to him in the cells and had come to him here. Cole let Anders see him, whatever that meant. A spirit wanted to be near him.

A sour, sick feeling gripped Anders’ stomach, his body tensed with almost retching tightness.

“...it seems that this was a little too close for comfort for you, my dear,” Vivienne said. She ran her hand down his back, as if trying to smooth away his pain. “I’ll have a talk with the Lady Trevelyan about having it leave you alone. It seems to listen to her.”

The pale woman, the mage, with the distant expression. “How? Has she… bound it?”

“Your guess is as good as mine, but…” Vivienne sighed. “As absurd as it sounds, the thing considers her as something of a _friend_ \- insofar as a spirit can comprehend the concept, anyways. She tells it to stop, it’ll stop.”

Her words brought no comfort. Only more pain.

A friend, insofar as a spirit could comprehend. Justice had probably never been his friend, only echoing reflections of his shallow, narrow understanding. Overwhelming and overriding him when Anders began to get in the way of his purpose.

“Darling, how long has it been since you’ve had a nice hot drink of something?” Vivienne said, her voice suddenly much brighter. “I have a _wonderful_ blend of tea that should do something about this trembling of yours.”

Anders just let his head shift, weakly. Vivienne nodded, and left. He heard her lock the door behind her.

She returned with a pot of tea. Anders couldn’t tell if she’d been gone a minute or an hour.

“There we are. Drink it all down, now,” she said, pressing a cup into his hands.

The tea was heavily-sweetened with honey, thick and fragrant. He could feel it warming his body from the inside as it went down his throat, radiating a relaxing heat into his bones. Herbalism, maybe. His eyes grew heavy.

“Now, let’s get you into bed. We’ll continue tomorrow.”

Anders didn’t resist as Vivienne stood him up and led him with careful, supporting arms to a bedchamber. He laid on top of the blankets after she sat him down on the bed, and darkness took him.

 


	2. There There (The Boney King of Nowhere)

When Anders woke, the spirit was standing above him.  
  
So much closer to him now, Anders could see the spirit’s face under the brim of his hat.  He had flighty, feverish eyes, and his expression was anxious, awkward.    
  
Anders slid back, startled.  The blankets caught and gathered beneath his body.  For all his fear, the first question out of Anders’ mouth was, “What are you doing here?”  
  
“You were calling, crying out, and I came,” the spirit replied.  “You carry so much hurt with you…”  
  
“Get away from me!”  Anders reached for something, anything, to defend himself, but there was nothing, no protective crackle of magic, or the warm wood of a staff.  He was powerless, helpless.  
  
...and the spirit crumpled, backing away, a delicate disappointment on his face.  “I’m sorry, I just… want to help…”  
  
Shadows swallowed him, and he was gone.  
  
Anders took quick, shallow breaths, alone on the bed.  The air was cold against his skin and clothes, soaked with sweat.  The clear, rational part of his mind told him that he should have been angry, but he felt more afraid, than anything.  
  
Eventually, his breath smoothed, his heart calmed.  And the next immediate noise was Vivienne, unlocking his door.  She appeared with a tray of food skillfully balanced on one hand.  “Rise and shine, dear.  I imagine that you’re a bit hungry.”  Her face creased a little with concern.  “Are you quite all right?”  
  
Anders blinked, slowly, feeling like his body was unfolding.  “Huh?”  
  
“You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”  


Oh.  “That… spirit, the boy-one.  It came into my room.”  
  
Vivienne sighed.  “I’ll have to speak with the Lady Trevelyan  _again_ , then, about keeping it in line.  But, first,” she continued, firmly, “breakfast."  
  
Vivienne’s offering was better than he’d had in years, even in Kirkwall: summer sausage and brown bread, and apples.  She’d brought a jug of cold, sweet water as well.  She set it out for him on the table next to his bed, and gestured to it, as if giving permission.  
  
Anders ate slowly, carefully, tearing pieces of bread and meat with his fingers before putting them into his mouth.  The act of chewing and swallowing felt oddly foreign to him, and the food sat heavily in his stomach.  Vivienne watched him impartially, sitting on his bed with one knee crossed over the other.  
  
“I figured you’d have an easier time with just your hands, for now,” she said, perhaps midway through the meal.  “I can’t expect you to know your way around a knife and silverware in your state.”  
  
“Best to keep any possible weapons away from me,” Anders said, with dark sincerity.  
  
Vivienne laughed at him, a short, almost polite noise.  “Darling, you flatter yourself.  I doubt you’d be able to pierce  _butter_  as you are now.  You’ll have to get your strength back, first.”  
  
“Am I really someone whose strength you want back?”  
  
“Well, you can’t exactly do much in the way of  _repentance_  when you can barely care for  _yourself_ ,” Vivienne said.  
  
Anders looked up, his face narrowed in confusion.  “Repentance…?”  
  
“Yes.  That  _is_  what the Lady Trevelyan seems to have in mind for you,” Vivienne replied.    
  
A bitter breath of a laugh.  “So I’m forgiven?  Just like that?”  
  
“I didn’t say  _forgiveness_ , my dear, I said  _repentance_ ,” Vivienne said, crossing her arms.  “The Inquisitor may be far too merciful for my taste, but she is a ruthlessly fair judge, I’ve found.  You have a debt, and I’m here to ensure that she'll see it _paid._ ”  
  
Dark, sticky shame filled his gut.  A chorus in his head that he should have known better.  He sighed, and returned to his meal.  Or, at least, he tried.  A tight and sudden nausea hit him, making his mouth water, and he stumbled to his knees before he vomited in the empty chamberpot in the corner.  
  
“Care to explain that?” Vivienne said, standing above him.  
  
“Too much,” Anders managed.  He wiped off his mouth on his arm.  His hands were shaking, badly.  
  
“You don’t  _need_  to eat everything I put in front of you, my dear,” Vivienne said.  
  
“No, it’s… I can’t handle it…”  
  
Vivienne paused, then made a thoughtful sort of noise.  “How long has it been since your last meal?  A  _real_  one, mind you,” she added. “Cooked and served, not stolen.”  
  
Anders breathed in through his nose, deeply, resisting a second wave of nausea.  “I don’t remember.”  
  
“This seems to be a recurring thing with you,” Vivienne said, dryly.  She clicked her tongue.  “I suppose I should have known better, given the state you’re in.  I’ll go find something lighter for you.”  
  
And she was gone, locking the door behind her.  Anders wondered, for a moment, where the warm woman from the night before had disappeared to, before he reminded himself that she’d probably never existed.  Nothing more than a show of hospitality to get him to cooperate, mixed with his own desperation.  If he wasn’t a prisoner, he was still very much a captive.  
  
Vivienne returned with a gently-steaming bowl in her hands.  Anders had since moved to the bed, and was laying on his side.  
  
“This ought to be a bit easier on your stomach,” she said, putting the bowl on the table.  There was a watery porridge in it.  
  
Anders sat up, narrowing his eyes.  “No spoon?”  
  
“Might be a bit easier just to drink from the bowl, this time around,” Vivienne said.  “Go on.”  
  
The porridge was little more than pure liquid, but it did go down easily.  Not much flavor, but that clearly wasn’t the point.  
  
“Now, let’s see if that stays down, hm?” Vivienne said.  “And I’ll see about getting some broth made for your lunch.”  
  
Anders laid down on his side again.  
  
“Well.  I’ll be back soon,” Vivienne told him, taking the bowl with her.  “Sleep if you can.”  
  
Anders obeyed, to a point.  He lay on his back and stared at the ceiling and tried not to think.  
  
He sat up when he heard a soft knocking at the door, but instead of Vivienne, it was the Inquisitor.  “I hope I haven’t disturbed you,” she said, as she came in.  
  
“No, I wasn’t… anything.”  The words tumbled like stones in his mouth.  
  
“May I sit here?”  She gestured to his bed.  
  
“Oh… sure.”  
  
She had a surprisingly slight presence, beside him, without scent or heat.  “I wanted to apologize to you for Cole’s behavior,” she said.  “I understand entirely if you’re wary of spirits, given your circumstance.”  
  
“Oh, it’s…”  Anders exhaled.  It wasn’t exactly all right.  “It won’t… bother me again, will it?” he said, instead.  
  
“No.  I told him to stay away from you,” the Inquisitor replied.  
  
“Ah… thank you.”  He looked at his hands.  “If you… don’t mind my asking, how in the world do you get it to…  _listen_  to you?”  
  
“I listen back, generally,” she replied, as if the thought weren’t patently ridiculous.    
  
She wasn’t looking at him, but she seemed to notice his look of aching disbelief.  
  
“Do you remember your Harrowing, Anders?” she said, still looking forward, blinking very slowly.  
  
Anders opened his mouth to answer, but the memory wasn’t there.  He didn’t say anything.  She continued.  
  
“I remember being very confused, after the fact, because I was asked what manner of demon I had encountered.  I couldn’t recall; there was a spirit called Patience that guided me and asked me to stay with it, but no demons.  I realized, later, that Patience could just have easily been Sloth, if I had been afraid, or ignorant of what I was seeing.”  
  
“Yes, I know, I know, spirits and demons, all semantics.”  Anders felt a bright, rare sting of resentment, pressing against the feeling that she was talking down to him.  
  
She paused, maybe thoughtful, maybe judgmental.  “Cole is a spirit of compassion - or he was, once.  He is something a bit different, now, but that still shapes how he sees the world,” she said.  “He is drawn to things in pain, and he wants to help them.  You just have to keep that in mind when talking to him.  Thinking as he does.”  
  
“What is he…  _now_ , if he’s not a spirit of compassion?” Anders said.  
  
“He is Cole.”  The Inquisitor looked at him, and there was a rose-petal smile on her face.  “You called him ‘he.’  Not ‘it.’  That’s another part of it.  He isn’t a person, but he is.”  
  
A prickly, pleasant discomfort settled in his shoulders.  “Are you some sort of expert on spirits, then?” Anders said, stiffly.  “Or just this particular one?”  
  
“I’d like to believe I know more than most, but, yes, I do know a fair amount more about Cole,” she said.  She looked away again.  “I actually had a friend that taught me a great deal about spirits.  He had the right to be called an expert, not me.”  
  
“I take it he’s... no longer around?”  
  
“Mm.”  A soft melancholy entered her pale face, and she looked at her knees.  “It’s a pity.  I think Solas would have been fascinated by you.”  
  
_Forget.  
  
_ “...should be back with some lunch later.  Are you all right?”  
  
The Inquisitor’s voice eased back into hearing, like noise after an explosion.  Anders snapped to attention.  “What?”  
  
“You don’t look well.  Are you all right?”  
  
There was a phantom ringing in his ears.  His eyes hurt.  “I think I… need to lie down,” he said, cupping his forehead in his hand.  
  
“I haven’t been… distressing you, have I?”  
  
“No, I just… I’m not feeling well.  In general.”  The pain began to ease.  Anders breathed deeply.  “I’m fine.”  
  
“I understand.  In any case, I’ll be taking my leave.”  The Inquisitor moved for the door.  “Rest well, Anders.”  
  
To his surprise, he did.  The headache did not return.  
  
\--  
  
Surprisingly, Cole seemed to have listened to the Inquisitor.  
  
Unsurprisingly, he interpreted, rather than followed, her orders.    
  
Over the next few days, Anders would wake each morning and find evidence of the spirit’s presence, or visitation.  Bundles of weeds left on the table beside his bed; glass buttons on bits of string.  One morning he found an odd little cookie there, still half-warm from the oven.  He found himself eating it before Vivienne could bring him breakfast, since it would be a little hard to explain, and it was small enough that he was confident he could keep it down.  
  
That was what set him to thinking.  He’d get aching little feelings, like promises, that he would say something, that he would make someone put their foot down, but they evaporated quickly.  The spirit wasn’t interacting with him directly.  He certainly wasn’t  _seeing_  when it was visiting him.  
  
If the little gifts were attempts at tempting him, they certainly weren’t doing a very effective job of it.  He was keeping them, nonetheless.  He couldn’t quite justify why beyond them seeming harmless enough.  
  
That’s what they really were, in a strange way.  Gifts.  Not out of any sort of expectation, as far as Anders could tell, and carrying a haphazard charm with them.    
  
Then he received the pillow.  
  
It was a very small thing, only a little bigger than his fist.  It was crudely-fashioned, and something resembling a sunburst was stitched onto it with red thread.  It had a gentle, spicy smell, one that tripped and tickled at the back of his mind.  
  
This seemed too shoddy and deliberate to be something found and offered.  This had been  _made_ .  
  
The question pulled at him:  _Why?_    
  
He let the little thing rest on the table in his corner.  Vivienne didn’t bring any attention to it, and he didn’t mention it to her.  Vivienne tended not to ask questions.  She only tended to his health, washing him and bringing him food, and would leave him to his thoughts and to sleep for the rest of the day.  
  
And the spirit’s gifts stopped coming.  The question pulled, again, with further strength.  
  
He used to find the things in the mornings, after his longer sleeps.  It would be a stretch, but he wanted to test a theory.  
  
“Do you suppose you could get me something to read?” he asked Vivienne, that particular afternoon, after she brought him lunch - stew, that day, with a spoon.  To his embarrassment, his hand still trembled a little when he held the spoon too tightly.  
  
“What do you have in mind, dear?” Vivienne replied.  
  
“Anything will do.  I just want something to keep myself busy.”  Anders paused, considering.  “Except the Chant of Light.  I’ve already read that one too many times.”  
  
“I suspect we  _all_  have, darling,” Vivienne said.  “I’ll look into it.”  
  
She returned with his dinner and a fairly thick book.  “Here you are, dear.  I figured that Brother Genitivi’s work was broad enough to have  _something_  of interest to you in it.”  
  
Anders flipped open the book to read the title:  _In Pursuit of Knowledge: Travels of a Chantry Scholar_ .  “Hm.  I suppose this will do,” he said, as neutrally as possible.  
  
“Beggars can’t be choosers, dear,” Vivienne replied, and she smirked, slightly.  “But I think you’ll like this one.”  
  
As usual, she was right.  There was enough in the book to keep him interested while simultaneously skipping over whatever was making him sleepy.  That was the aim, after all: to keep awake.  It was only a theory, but he had no other ideas about how to talk to the spirit.    
  
No, he wasn’t going to ask for the inquisitor’s cooperation.  That would just create false assumptions.  This was just a - small annoying little thought that he wanted settled, nothing more.  He’d wait, and he’d listen, if he had to.  
  
The plan was going fairly well until he got to the chapter on the Anderfels.  
  
He couldn’t help himself.  He began to read it.  His face began to warm with annoyance.  
  
He put the book away.  A place of extremes?  Of barrenness and faith?  He couldn’t decide if the author was shallow or condescending or correct.  Or all three.    
  
The anger failed to keep him awake.  He didn’t sleep for terribly long, luckily - the candle on his table had barely burned down.  
  
And he found the spirit in his room.  He was huddled in the corner by the door, his hat covering his face and shoulders.  He had something cupped in his hands.  
  
Anders was slow and careful as he sat up, trying not to make any noise.  “I can see you, you know,” he said.  
  
The spirit stood, startled.  “I’m sorry, you aren’t supposed to see me, I know, I was just trying to… fix this.  I’m sorry.  I can have you forget this.”  
  
“Forget this...?”  
  
“Yes.  I can make people forget.  If it hurts.  Or if I couldn’t help.”  He kept his head down, hunched and humiliated.  “I’ve felt your fear.  Spirits, stealing bodies.  I can have you forget me.”  
  
“No, I just…”  Anders squinted, trying to focus in the half-light.  “What is that in your hands?”  
  
“Something… small, stitched, smelling like home,” the spirit replied.  “But it isn’t right.  I need to fix it, first.  Then it can help you.”  
  
“Help me  _how_ ?” Anders said.  He realized that it was the pillow in the spirit’s hands.  There was a needle stuck into it, now.  
  
“Comfort, and closeness.  The smell of the pines behind my house, sap and needles in my hair.”  The spirit’s shoulders hunched.  “A kind memory.”  
  
“I don’t... understand,” Anders said.  “What are you talking about?”  
  
“I don’t know how it’s supposed to look.  It can’t work if I don’t get it right.”  And the spirit allowed his hands to open, and he held the pillow out to Anders.  The sunburst was a little neater, now, but still clearly the work of unskilled hands.  
  
“Did you… make this?” Anders said.  
  
“Needle and thread, nobody would notice, but the skill to sew cannot be stolen,” the spirit said.  “I had to be seen.  I asked to learn.  Krem remembered, and he was glad to teach me.  All boys should learn to sew, he said.  To mend when home is missing.”  
  
“What is it supposed to…  _be_ , exactly?”  
  
“The one your mother gave you is gone.  This is to recover, but not replace.”  
  
And there, yes, the answer fit into the question like a key into a lock.  “How did you know about that...?” Anders said, softly.  
  
“I feel your hurt.  It is loud, and bright.  It overwhelms.  I saw what brought you comfort.  Garden of weeds in Lowtown, string of buttons as a grateful gift, the way she smiled when she was half-asleep.  This was the best thing I could bring you.”  He held the pillow a little closer to his chest, his fingers closing around it again.  “But it isn’t helping, is it.”  
  
He sounded unbearably sad.  And Anders maybe believed him.  
  
“The Inquisitor told me that you... are a spirit of compassion,” Anders said, almost making it sound like a question.    
  
“Compassion, once, but something other now,” the spirit said.  “Brought into being by a whispered wish, molding and making me what he could not be.  I thought I was human, once, for my mind was made of memories.  But I know better now.”  
  
Anders had to close his eyes as he thought.  “So, you’re…?”  
  
“I’m Cole.”  
  
Anders sighed, and he rubbed his forehead.  Just like the Inquisitor.  Whatever this thing was, it was certainly confusing.  
  
But… it didn’t speak like a demon.  It did not tempt or tease or try.    
  
“And you just want to help, do you?” Anders said.  
  
“I heal hurt.  Yes.”  
  
“And you made that pillow because… I had lost the original.”  
  
“Yes.  But it isn’t helping like I thought it would.”  Disappointment entered his body and voice.  “I think it would help more if you forgot.  I can do that.”  
  
“No, please.”  The words were fast and impulsive out of Anders’ mouth.  “If you’re… doing this just to make me… feel better, then I’m… thank you.”  A tight squeeze of nervousness eased around his chest.  He was half-thinking, his heart driving him.  “I’ve lived without kindness for quite a while.  I can’t be picky as to where it comes from…”  
  
Of course, there was probably an ulterior motive to all this.  Spirits could never be satisfied, not by anything.  But he could at least make himself understood, establish barriers.  
  
Justice was not compassionate.  Justice was a selfish, driven, hard thing, inflexible and constant.  This was another creature altogether.  
  
Cole looked up, and he was smiling.  It was an open, awkward expression.  “Then I helped after all?”  
  
 He could, perhaps, be negotiated with.  Carefully.  
  
“Depends on your definition of ‘help,’ but…”  
  
“I only pull at pieces coming apart, peeling like petals from the burden,” Cole said, quickly, eagerly.  “This helps.  Mostly.  The rest I bring, myself.”  
  
Anders didn’t even pretend that he understood what Cole was talking about, but this didn’t bother him.  He was a weak man, and a lonely man.  
  
And he was in control of a situation for once.  Or, at least, he felt like it.  
  
“I don’t want help…  _now,_ ” Anders said.  “But if I do… I’ll ask for you.  Somehow.”  
  
“Yes.”  Cole nodded.  “I’ll know.  I’ll ask, too.”  
  
The flutter of fear leaving him made Anders acutely aware of how tired he was.  He yawned.  “So... I’m going to bed?” he said.  
  
“Yes,” Cole said.  
  
Anders didn’t remember falling asleep, but when he woke, the pillow was back on his table, more complete than before.  
  
It looked nothing like his memory of his mother’s gift.  
  
This was a good thing, and the thought warmed him.


	3. A Punchup at a Wedding (No no no no no no no no.)

“Are you a healer, Vivienne?”  
  
Viviene had just finished shaving him.  She’d been keeping a neat area around his mouth untouched, apparently making good on her suggestion of a beard.  He had no interest in stopping her, and no other complaints about her care, for that matter.

  
“I know some healing _arts_ , darling, but that’s hardly my specialty,” Vivienne said.  “Why do you ask?”

  
“I was just wondering why it was that… _you’re_ taking care of me and not, say… another mage here,” he said.  He continued before she could reply.  “I imagine that there are others more in need of the care of a healer, so…”

  
“I volunteered for the task, actually.  When the Lady Trevelyan was discussing your arrival with Lady Montilyet,” Vivienne said.

  
“You did?”  She nodded.  “Why?”

  
“I _do_ savor the opportunity to give someone a well-deserved makeover,” Vivienne said.  “They’re rarer than you might think.”

  
“That’s honestly the reason?” Anders said, narrowing his eyes in skepticism.

  
Vivienne sighed, and shut her razor’s case.  “Do you want the full answer, darling, or can you settle for what I’ve told you?”

  
Creeping, insistent, should-have-known-better, waking and stretching in Anders’ gut.  “The full answer.  What are you getting out of this?”

  
“Truly very little,” Vivienne replied.  “Personal satisfaction, mostly, at seeing you recover.”

  
“Ah.”  Anders thought a little, then smirked.  “So, if you want to see me recovered…  That means you supported my cause, then?  The rebellion?”

  
“Oh, quite the contrary, darling,” Vivienne said, looking honestly a bit startled.  “However did you jump to _that_ conclusion?”

  
“Well, uh…” His breath went dry in his lungs.  “You’re not… torturing me, first off.”

  
“I have no _reason_ to, dear,” Vivienne replied.  “I have absolutely nothing to _gain_ from your suffering.”

  
“Oh.  Then what are you going to do to me?”  Anders’ voice was a monotone, and he gathered his arms close to his chest.  “Reform me?  Show me the _virtues_ of the Circle system?”

  
“It’s a bit hard to speak for an institution that no longer exists,” Vivienne said.  She sighed.  “True, the College is promising, but it’s still very young.”

  
Anders stared at her, bewildered.

  
“Oh, did you not know?” she said.  “The Circle is _gone_.  The Bright Hand is the new institution.  No templars, no phylacteries, just the finest mages in Thedas teaching and guiding the next generation.”  There was dry disinterest in her voice.  “It’ll be interesting to see where it all goes.”

  
Anders had dreamed about this for years.  When he could still dream.

  
“Why do you look disappointed?” Vivienne said.

  
“I just wish it could have happened without… what I did starting it off,” he said.  “I mean, maybe it wouldn’t have happened _without_ me, but… I never wanted for so many people to _die_ for mages to be _free_.”

  
Vivienne’s face became frighteningly still.  There was a dangerous silence.  “Why a chantry?” she finally said.

  
“Excuse me?”  
  
“The templar order of Kirkwall  _was_ a branch of their chantry, but one that existed on a largely independent level,” Vivienne said.  “Why not destroy, say, their barracks, or offices?  Why a _chantry?_ ”

  
Hot shame and embarrassment began to run through Anders’ body.  “I-I don’t… remember the exact…”  His eyes flitted away from his knees and to Vivienne’s face.  She wasn’t convinced.  “It… I didn’t exactly think it through, I just… wanted to make a statement.”

  
“There are many fine and eloquent ways to make a statement, and none of them involve the destruction of holy houses.”  Anders had never heard Vivienne speak so coldly.  Even her condescension was a usually a warm, polished thing.

  
Resistance burst out of him, pressurized.  “I didn’t - want to go through with it!  Honestly!” he said, locking eyes with her.

  
“Then why _did_ you.”

  
“I wasn’t… _strong_ enough!” he cried.  “I realized - _Hawke_ made me realize - that I wouldn’t be helping _anybody_ , not even mages, but Vengeance…!”

  
Memories of helplessness, terror, his body being taken from him.  The pungent smell of drakestone-smoke. 

  
The look of pain and disappointment on Hawke’s face.

  
“He didn’t _care_ who got hurt, just as long as he could be _satisfied_ , and I couldn’t _stop_ him!”

  
Anders’ breath came rapidly in the silence.  Vivienne’s expression, lidded and cold, didn’t change.

  
“It was - it was almost like an addiction,” Anders continued, his voice weakened, his thoughts flying.  “That rush of power that came with becoming him, that sense of - _purpose_ , that I was doing something _good_ , a part of something _bigger_.  I couldn’t… resist anymore...”

  
Now, he only felt empty, a useless, dangerous spare part.

  
“You know, it’s almost funny,” Vivienne said, the contempt on her face softening.  “I’ve heard nearly the exact same thing from former _templars_ being rehabilitated here.”

  
“...what?”

  
“Lyrium addiction, but also power,” Vivienne continued, replying.  “And purpose.  There are a lot of guardsmen with nothing to guard, these days.  Nothing to justify their strength.”

  
“Are you… honestly saying that a - _templar’s_ experience is the same as _mine?!_ ”  There was a tight knot of anger and anxiety now, in his chest.

  
Vivienne was not swayed in the slightest.  “No.  Resisting a demon is likely far more difficult than lyrium withdrawal,” she said, evenly.  “And it’s harder to justify your actions when you remain in full control of your own _body._ ”

  
“Exactly.”  Angry pressure against his chest made him breathe more deeply.  “And I _tried!_ ”

  
“I don’t doubt that, dear,” Vivienne said.  “But what’s done is done.  Excuses are useless against that.”

  
“I’m not…!”  Anders made a sharp, frustrated sigh.  “I am not making _excuses_ , I’m just saying that I would have… I would have kept this from happening if I had the _power!_ ”

  
“Even if the Circle continued to exist, as a result?”

  
Anders felt like his thoughts were becoming tangled and undone all at once.  “I would have - found another way.  Hawke would know.  She - she almost _stopped_ me.”

  
“This is assuming that Hawke had your interests at heart,” Vivienne said.

  
“She wanted mages to be _free!_ ”

  
“Did she?  She wasn’t a mage, herself,” Vivienne said.

  
“That’s beside the point!”

  
“What do you think she’d have done, then?”

  
“I don’t - know!  But she’d know what to do!”  There was heat behind his eyes.  Wetness.  “She always… she always knew what to do.  She knew what to say to me.  She almost _saved_ me…”

  
He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt - just _felt_ , _anything_ \- so strongly.  His whole body was aching with grief, now, so harsh and persistent that he thought he might fall to pieces.

  
He began to cry.  Not a delicate, quiet cry, that let the hurt out in sighs and silence, the way he had mourned for Karl.  This was a raw, open sob, the kind that leaked and hiccuped and screamed. 

  
“Why did it have to end up this way...?” he cried.  “She’d… she’d still be alive if I had just… just been stronger…!”

  
He covered his face with his hands and felt hot tears on his palms.

  
And he felt Vivienne’s hand, gentle and cool, on his back.

  
“The important thing to remember about the past is that it has _passed_ ,” she said, her voice softened and soothing.  “There’s nothing you can do about it now but work with what you _have_.”

  
“I’m a horrible person…  I’m a monster…”

  
“Now, now, nobody’s saying that here but _you_ , my dear,” Vivienne said.  “Maybe you were, once.  But you’ve been handed a grand opportunity to prove _otherwise_.”

  
“How could I possibly do _that_.”  Anders swallowed a hiccup, and sniffed.

  
“We’ll get to that when you’re a little more on the mend,” Vivienne said.  “You need to at _least_ look a little presentable for your trial.”

  
“No point.  I should just ask for execution.”  Anders sniffed.

  
“Oh, hush.  It’s _far_ more entertaining for people to witness a redemption story than a common beheading,” Vivienne said.

  
Anders moaned a little.  “There’s no way I can ever make up for what I’ve done.”

  
“Darling, the economy of favor is a very fickle thing,” Vivienne said.  “I’m sure we’ll be able to think of _something_.”

  
Anders didn’t say anything.  His breathing slowed and sniffled.  Vivienne kept her hand on his back, not saying anything.

  
After a time, she lifted her hand.  "Now, you should have a nice lie-down after that cry.  You look a _mess_ right now.”

  
And without a further word of comfort, she was gone.

Anders flopped miserably onto his back on his bed after he heard Vivienne lock the door behind her.  And, despite his best intentions to defy her, he ended up falling asleep, his body feeling at once heavy and empty from emotion.

 


	4. Sit Down.  Stand Up.  (Snakes & Ladders)

After breakfast one day, Vivienne brought Anders a visitor.  He was short and had dark features, and his posture and build gave off an impression of impressive sturdiness.  “Hans, darling?” she said.  “You have a visitor.”  
  
Anders had been sitting up on the bed, playing cats-cradle with a loop of string that Cole had left him.  He looked up, wondering why she was using _that_ name, but said nothing.  
  
“Hans, is it?” the man said.  He had a rough, rural accent.  
  
“If you like.”  
  
“Call me Blackwall.”  
  
“Nice to meet you, Blackwall,” Anders replied.  He put his string aside, and took on a skeptical squint.  “What brings you here?”  
  
“I’m to take you for a walk.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Blackwall has been kind enough to offer to be your chaperone while you get a constitutional today, my dear,” Vivienne said, almost helpfully.  “Too much darkness and damp air isn’t good for _anyone_.”  
  
“You’re letting me _out?_ ” Anders said.  
  
“Temporarily, and with a guardian, but yes,” Vivienne said.  
  
“You aren’t worried I’m going to try and escape?”  Anders looked between them, from one face to the other.  “Does he know who I am?”  
  
“Yes, I know about you,” Blackwall said.  “An apostate of some infamy, is it?  Don’t worry, I’m in no position to judge.  I don’t have the most virtuous background, myself.”  
  
“Oh, really,” Anders said.  “You’re a ‘terrorist’ too?”  
  
“War criminal, actually.  How most people would put it, I suppose,” Blackwall said, in a strangely genial tone.  “You’re not going anywhere with me, lad.”  
  
Anders dressed himself in a warm, wool tunic - provided by Vivienne - and fastened a cape around his shoulders, keeping the hood well-drawn over his head.  It was a day of very early spring, and the air bit at every surface.  
  
Blackwall led him down the hall and up a few, meandering sets of stairs.  The chill barely eased, and though Anders wanted to hold his arms, he kept his hands firmly fastened to the clasp of his cloak.  
  
"Why do you keep trying to cover your face?" Blackwall said, after they passed through the kitchens and went outside.  "You think someone's after you?"  
  
"Yes," Anders said, pulling the hood down further, stooping his shoulders.   
  
"Well, Lady Vivienne wouldn't be letting you out here with me if someone really _was_ ," Blackwall said.  "Relax."  
  
Anders kept his hands on the edges of his hood.  
  
Remarkably few people seemed to notice that they were passing through the grounds, regardless.  Blackwall received a few nods of acknowledgment, but for the most part, nobody cared.  Anders couldn't quite feel relieved about this.  
  
They stopped at a barn with a row of stables, and the smell of clean straw and iron was heavily present.  "Now, let's see..." Blackwall put his hands on his waist, and peered over a table covered in various blades.  "I wonder which of these you could handle..."  
  
"You're going to _arm_ me?" Anders said.  
  
Blackwall narrowed his eyes in appraisal, looking at Anders over his shoulder.  "Well, you're going to need _something_ on you, just in case.  Never know what'll happen," he said.  
  
"I could slit your throat and escape," Anders said.  
  
"We'll see."  Blackwall returned to the table, and, after holding his hand over it for a moment, selected an impressively small dagger.  "That should work for you."  
  
"Think I'll do less damage with that than a sword?" Anders said.  
  
Blackwall pressed his lips together, then he put down the dagger and grabbed a longsword off the table.  "Here, try swinging this around," he said, passing it to Anders.  
  
Anders grabbed it, and the blade thumped heavily onto the ground.  It was an enormous effort to lift.  
  
"Exactly my point.  Just stick to the dagger," Blackwall said, taking the sword from him.  He handled it as if it weighed nothing, and set it lightly back down on the table.  "You seem to be under the impression that you're a lot more dangerous than you really are."   
  
"I _am_ dangerous."  
  
"Or, you were, but you've withered a bit since then, to say the least," Blackwall said.  "I'm more than capable of taking care of myself, lad.  Now, take the dagger.”  
  
Anders, with no small amount of distaste, did as he was told, sliding the knife into his belt.  
  
From there, they walked.  Blackwall didn’t seem to be following any particular path, just meandering through the muddy ground, passing trainees and crafters.  
  
"So, what's your story?" Blackwall asked, some time later.  "Apostate terrorist, eh?"  
  
"You heard about the Kirkwall chantry?"  
  
"Mhm.  Blown up by rebel mages."  
  
"That was my work."  There was no pride in Anders' voice, not anymore.  
  
"Mm."  If Blackwall was impressed or intimidated, he didn't show it.  “Thought your name was Anders.”  
  
“Technically, that isn’t my name either,” Anders replied.  “Just where I’m from.”  
  
“Hm.  Interesting,” Blackwall said.  "You been on the run since then?"  
  
"I guess so," Anders said.  "I can't remember much after that."  
  
"I had a feeling you were a mage or something like that," Blackwall continued.  "It's the arms.  No meat on 'em.  Not doing much magic these days, though, huh?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Lost the heart for it, then?  Lady Vivienne gave me the impression that you were feeling pretty badly about all of it."  
  
"I don't... know," Anders said.  "I haven't had much need to use it, lately.  But I think it's gone."  
  
"Like a Tranquil?"   
  
Anders shrugged.  
  
"You don't sound like a Tranquil to me."  
  
"It's because I'm _not,_ " Anders said, glaring at him.  "But... there used to be a spirit with me.  He's gone, now.  I think he took my magic with him."  
  
"Well, that's a bit of a blessing, isn't it?" Blackwall said.  "You lost the magic but kept your soul."  
  
"I'm not so sure about that," Anders replied.  He chewed bitterly on the thought before deflecting.  "Wait, what's _your_ story, then?  Former rebel mage as well?"  
  
"I told you at the start, I'm a war criminal," Blackwall replied.  "I oversaw the slaughter of an innocent family when I was in the Orlesian army, let my men take the fall, and I impersonated a Grey Warden that tried to conscript me after he died.  Kept the law off my back."  
  
"...seriously?"  
  
"What, you thought I was some virtuous templar or something?" Blackwall said, sounding mildly outraged.   "Lady Vivienne told me you're in need of someone you could relate to.”  
  
“ _Relate_ to.”  
  
“Hey.  I'm no apostate terrorist, but I'm as close as you can get,” Blackwall said.  “At the very least, neither of us are using our real names.  You aren’t Hans - or Anders, apparently.  I’m not Blackwall.  You can call me Thom, if you like, but I suspect that both of our aliases are a bit hard to get rid of.”  
  
Anders gave him a rough and sandy glance.  
  
"This is the part where you ask me why I'm walking around here like a free man when I've got such a storied past," Blackwall said.  
  
"Yes.  Why is it that you're walking around like a free man?" Anders said, with flat sarcasm.  
  
"Because I was offered a chance to make up for it, and I took it," Blackwall said.  "I understand you may be offered the same.  Here's your motivation."  
  
"...tell me, Blackwall, were your crimes so great that you were hunted by every armed force in Thedas?" Anders said.  "Did they start a _war?_ "  
  
Blackwall, of all things, sighed.  "Look, lad," he said, "if we were to start debating the weight of a crime, we'd be here all day.  Everybody's got something to make up for.  The only thing that matters is what you're doing _now_."  
  
"What are _you_ doing, then, if you're to be my _inspiration_ , as it were?" Anders said.  
  
"What, to make up for what _I've_ done?" Blackwall said.   
  
Anders continued to glower at him, in place of a nod.  
  
"I'm doing what I _should_ have been doing," Blackwall said.  "Helping those in need.  Fighting darkspawn.  Making the most of what I have."  
  
"...that's it?"  
  
"That's it."  
  
"You aren't... serving the Grey Wardens or anything?"  Anders knew full-well how easy it would be for them to take someone like Blackwall into their fold, if he was looking for sanctuary, running from guilt.  
  
"I considered it," Blackwall said.  "I even turned myself in to hang for what I'd done.  The Inquisitor convinced me otherwise."  
  
"Oh, really."  
  
"Yes, really," Blackwall replied.  
  
"So what was it she said?"  
  
"It wasn't what she said, it was what she did," Blackwall said.  "She pardoned me - she _had_ the power to pardon me, give me another chance.  And I realized, then, that on my own, I was nothing - even if I _did_ turn myself in, it wouldn't do any good for anyone.  But serving _her_ , serving a cause, _that_ would do some good."  
  
"How wonderful for you," Anders said.  
  
"Well, ask yourself this: who would benefit from your execution?" Blackwall said.  "And I mean _really_ benefit, not just feeling satisfaction."  
  
Anders could think of _more_ than a few people that would be satisfied with him dead - all of them related to Hawke - but he couldn't see how that would improve their lives.  Even if he hated them.  It would be much the same as if he were still alive, but out of the way.  
  
"I suppose you have a point," Anders said.  "But, still, how do you make up for starting a _war?_ "  
  
"Don't ask me," Blackwall said, shrugging.  "I'd trust Lady Trevelyan, though.  She's got experience with this."  He made a gruff little chuckle.  "Practically everyone in the inquisition's got something they're working off, come to think of it."  
  
"Really."  
  
"Well, we got a Red Jenny, a Qunari spy - former spy, pardon me - a Tevinter mage, and I don't know what Cole is, but-"  
  
"There's a Tevinter mage here?"  Anders stopped in his tracks.  There was a sudden, wonderful lightness in his chest.  
  
"Uh... yes?"  
  
"They're here helping with the southern mages?"  
  
"I don't... know what else he's doing," Blackwall said, looking thoroughly baffled.  "Why do you ask?"  
  
"If a Tevinter mage is here, and they're accepting his help...!"  Anders face hurt from the force of his smile.  "Maybe I have a chance...!"  
  
"A chance...?"  
  
"Maybe there will be a way for me to help.  To fix what I broke.  Oh, I have to _meet_ this man!"  
  
Blackwall reached for something to say, but sighed instead. "I'm not going to pretend that I understand all this mage business," Blackwall said, "but, sure.  I get your point.  If a Tevinter mage can find a place here, so can an apostate like you."  
  
"Yes," Anders said, beaming, "exactly."  
  
Keeping to himself the "mage business" that Blackwall likely wouldn't have understood: if a Tevinter mage was assisting in the restructuring of the mage education system, then surely he was campaigning for mage rights on at least _some_ level comparable to the Imperium.  If _this_ was the sort of future that mages were going to have, he couldn't have been happier.  These were people that were open and accepting.  Maybe - just maybe - there would be people that would understand him, too.  
  
"So, you see what I meant, about there being a place for everyone," Blackwall continued.  "Takes all sorts to make an inquisition, I suppose."  
  
(Blackwall, for his part, was confused, but satisfied, at Anders' sudden shift in mood.  Vivienne had asked for him for a reason, and he'd done what she'd wanted him to do - somehow.)  
  
Blackwall returned him to the chambers beneath Skyhold, though stopping at the barn to take back the dagger.  
  
“Giving me this… wasn’t to defend myself, was it?” Anders said, as Blackwall proceeded.  
  
“Pardon?”  
  
“You just letting me carry this around.  We weren’t in any danger.”  
  
“Of course not,” Blackwall said.  “But you felt more comfortable, didn’t you?”  
  
Anders didn’t want to admit that he agreed.  Even with a dagger, Blackwall didn’t act like he was in the presence of someone dangerous.  It was a strange little display of trust, he had to suppose.  
  
Vivienne was waiting for them by the door to Anders’ room.  "Have a good stroll?" she said.  
  
"There's a Tevinter mage here, do you think you could arrange for a meeting?" Anders replied, with an eager, breathless smile.  
  
Vivienne blinked, her face drawn a little in surprise.  "However did you learn that, my dear?"  
  
"Came up in the conversation," Blackwall said.  "I was just telling him how he's not the only one here with an unsavory background."  
  
"Did you, now?" Vivienne said.  "Well, I suppose I could ask Dorian what he thinks.  But why in the world you want to speak with him?"  
  
"I think... he'd understand my experience a little better than, er, him," Anders said, gesturing to Blackwall.  "I mean, he's a mage, and being from Tevinter, he probably has... some experience with opposition..."  
  
"Hm.  I see."  Vivienne poised her fingers on her chin.  "Very well, then.  I'll talk to Dorian and see how he feels about this."  
  
"It's - okay if he doesn't want to talk to me, though, I mean, he must be very busy helping with everything..." Anders said, anxiously.  "I mean, he _is_ from Tevinter..."  
  
"You’d be surprised," Vivienne said.  "He has far more time on his hands than you're likely thinking."  
  
"Well, all the same..."  
  
"It's refreshing to see you so animated, at least," Vivienne said, a gentle smile on her lips.  "Thank you, Blackwall.  You may go, now."  
  
"Any time, Lady Vivienne," Blackwall said, in a low tone that wasn't clearly respect or resentment.   He shuffled down the hall and out of sight.

 


	5. 2 + 2 = 5 (The Lukewarm)

Vivienne brought Anders to the library once Dorian had agreed to a chat.  It was surprisingly less of a wait than both of them were expecting, and for, surprisingly, the same reason.  Anders was of the opinion that he wasn’t worthy of the radiant Tevinter’s time, while Vivienne found it hard to believe that Dorian would have anything to say to the apostate that destroyed Kirkwall’s chantry - and, yes, she made sure that Dorian knew this.

Therefore, it was with cautious optimism that Vivienne escorted Anders up the spiral stair to Skyhold’s library, where Dorian was waiting in his favorite chair, leg crossed over knee, a cup of tea in his hand.

“Dorian, darling, we’re here,” Vivienne said.

“Ah, is that him?”  Dorian got up, putting down his teacup, a copper-bright smile on his face.  “Dorian of house Pavus, at your service,” he said, giving a slight, playful bow.

“Oh, uh… please, I’m not worth that… sort of talk,” Anders said, waving a nervous, dismissive hand.  “I’m… you can call me Anders.”

“Yes, I’m a bit aware of who _you_ are,” Dorian said.  “Thank you, Vivienne.  You can leave us.”

“You’re sure, dear?”

“Oh yes,” Dorian said.  “I’m sure we’ll have a lot to talk about, together.  And I’ve made tea!”

“Very well, then,” Vivienne said.  “I’ll leave you to it.”  She pursed her lips in a skeptical gesture as she left.

“Please, sit.”  Dorian gestured to a smaller armchair, across from his usual one.

“Oh… of course.”  Anders did so, his body tense and his hands clamped to his knees.

“So, what is it that you’d like to discuss with me?” Dorian said.  He poured Anders a cup of tea.  “Vivienne tells me you’re rather _fascinated_ with my homeland.”

“Well, of course…!” Anders said. “Tevinter is… it’s an inspiration to me.”

“An inspiration, is it?” Dorian said.

“A land where mages can practice their craft in complete freedom, where they’re encouraged and… _supported_ unconditionally…!”  Anders shivered.  “It’s almost like a dream.”

“...right!”  Dorian’s smile was quite stiff.  “Well, it’s… heartening to know that not _everyone_ in the south believes their Chantry’s propaganda.”

“Oh, of course not!” Anders said, sitting up a little more.  “I mean… surely you know how corrupt the southern Circles were, right?”

“I’ve heard a thing or two,” Dorian said.

“Horrible places,” Anders said, his voice growing hushed for a moment.  “I mean, compared to what I’ve heard about Tevinter’s Circles!  Proper schools, where magic and those who use it are given the respect they deserve.”

“Mm.”  Dorian slid the cup of tea towards Anders, but Anders didn’t notice.  “And this system couldn’t _possibly_ be corrupted, either, could it?”

“Well, corruption is possible in any structure of power, but...” Anders said.  He looked up at Dorian.  “What… kind of corruption could there possibly have been in Tevinter?”

Dorian blinked a few times, quickly, his mouth half-open.  “My dear boy,” he finally said, “are you _serious?_ ”

  
“Well… yes, of course I am,” Anders said, though he was hunched over, feeling oddly humiliated.  “I mean… well, the practice of blood magic…?  That’s surely all it is, right…?”

A defense mechanism of a smile was on Dorian’s face, now.  “Please, forgive me if I’m making assumptions here, but - where have you _been_ for the past few years?”

“Possessed by a spirit, actually...” Anders said, quietly.  “I’ve only recently been… in full control of my body.”

“...ah,” Dorian said.  “I remember hearing something about that.  My apologies.”

“It’s all right…”

“Still, please, allow me to - correct you?  If that’s the right word to use,” Dorian continued.  “This most recent conflict - you know the general details, yes?  Tears in the veil, Dark Lord, red lyrium?”  Anders nodded, though only to get Dorian to continue - he had only the barest of ideas what any of that meant.  “Yes, well - Tevinter had a bit of a hand to play in that.  A bit more of a hand than I’m comfortable with, to tell the truth…”

“...I’m sorry, what did they do, exactly…?” Anders said.

Dorian sighed.  “If I am to put it _exactly_ , an ancient magister looking to restore Tevinter to its former _glory_ put together an army of nationalists to reclaim what were once Imperium lands.”

“...and that’s a bad thing?” Anders said.

Dorian’s face wore a wrinkled, unpleasant expression, as if someone had told him he’d just eaten boiled nug.  “Did you just ask me if a _hostile invasion_ was a _bad_ thing?” he said.

“Well, I’m… sure there was a good reason,” Anders said.  “Everyone has… reasons.”

Dorian took a deep, sharp breath through his nose, and he took a quick gulp of tea.  “Reasons.  Yes, nobody ever does anything without _purpose_ , in matters like this.  Now, I don’t speak for them at all,” he continued, “but I believe their reasons were to make a god out of their leader and to kill or enslave any who resisted them.  In the name of restoring the Imperium.  Quite reasonable of them, wouldn’t you say?”

The hot flush of humiliation surged over his body, but Anders didn’t dare say anything back.  This was a Tevinter mage, speaking about his own country and people and… frankly, things he hadn’t even been witness to.  (Red lyrium?  Why did that sound familiar?)

Anders knew when he was being mocked, and for once he knew that he deserved it.  A Tevinter mage knew what he was talking about, there was no reason why he _wouldn’t_.  Some backwater apostate like - oh, Merrill, or Bethany - _they_ wouldn’t have any right, but this man…

“I can see why you admire my homeland,” Dorian said, his voice much more gentle now.  “Especially given what I’ve heard of your southern Circles, in comparison.  But you must understand that it’s… very likely not this mage paradise you’ve been imagining.”

“But… the Circles in Tevinter, what I’ve heard…”  Anders couldn’t look at him.  He let his eyes wander somewhere near his hands.

“Most likely some smear campaign that you… took a different way,” Dorian said.  “Ah, yes, look at this dangerous land, full of mages that consort with fell demons and have no templars to leash them!  It’s easy to ignore the demon bits and only listen to the part about templars when they’re _your_ chief concern, I imagine.”

“...it’s still a better system,” Anders said.  “Mages should never be held against their will.  Forced to… bow to the will of _templars.”_

A curious, whim-expression crossed Dorian’s face, and he held his hand to his chin.  “Speaking of captivity and all that,” he said, “you… _are_ aware that simply being a mage does not guarantee status in Tevinter, right?”

“It… doesn’t?”

  
“No.  In fact, many lower-class mages sell themselves into slavery, because of their lot in life.”  Dorian seemed oddly pleased with himself, a smile growing on his lips.  “Yes, there are a _lot_ of mages in Tevinter, and it’s very difficult for _every_ mage to be at the top, as a result.”

“Well… slavery isn’t so bad, though,” Anders said.  “I mean, whoever owns them has an obligation to keep them fed and that’s more than templars are…”  Anders stopped because Dorian was pinching the skin between his eyes.

“You know, a year ago, I might have agreed with you entirely,” Dorian said, groaning slightly.  “But then again, a year ago, my experience with slaves was rather… _limited_.”

“Does your family not… own slaves?”

  
“Oh, no, no, of course it does,” Dorian said, waving his hand.  “But my family is… perhaps a little better towards their people than others are.  The institution is only as good as its masters, and good masters are never a guarantee.”

“But they’re still expected to hold certain standards, right?”

“Expected.  But then you get the ones that buy slaves and use them for blood magic rituals,” Dorian said, lowly.  “Or human experimentation.  Or just…”  Dorian groaned.  “It’s frowned-upon, but nobody ever does anything _about_ it.  It’s something I want to change.”

“Well, surely that’s the - exception, rather than the rule…?”

Dorian sighed, deeply.  “I feel like I’m talking to a _wall_ ,” he said, half to himself.  “Are you truly content with the idea that slaves can be abused without repercussion?”

“Well… no, of course not,” Anders said.

“Then until someone changes things, that’s the situation in Tevinter,” Dorian said.  He crossed his arms, leaning back into his armchair.  “I’d like that someone to be _me_ , but as of yet I’m lacking in support.”

Anders was beginning to feel oddly dizzy.  “But you’re… helping the southern mages too, right?”

“Well, of course!  A man can care about more than one cause, after all,” Dorian said.

“You’d make the Circles more like the ones in Tevinter, right?”

“Er… the good parts, yes,” Dorian said.  “More personal responsibility and less blood magic, preferably.  Also, unless I’m mistaken, aren’t there are no _longer_ Circles under the southern Chantry?”

Ah.  Vivienne _had_ said something to that effect, hadn’t she?  “Oh, I suppose so… Still, it’s wonderful to imagine the freedoms that the next generation of mages will have,” Anders said.

“One can hope,” Dorian said.  “Of course… that does depend on said future mages not mucking things up by pulling little _stunts_ when they think people are getting complacent…”

“I’m… sorry, I don’t follow,” Anders said, though a hot and heavy hurt in his chest told him that was a lie.

“I do have to admit that I admire your sheer - how best to put this? - utter lack of _shame_ , when it comes to dragging problems into the light,” Dorian said, “but… _please_ promise me you aren’t going to blow up any more chantries?  Divine Victoria’s just getting started, and I’d rather like to give her the benefit of the doubt, for now.”

“I’m… honestly probably going to stay away from that for now…” Anders said, his voice tumbling into a murmur.  “The last thing anyone wants right now is my ‘help,’ really.”

“A fine decision if there ever was one,” Dorian said, cheerfully.  “Now, if you truly don’t mind - try the tea?  It’s really quite good, and I’d _hate_ to see it go to waste.”

Anders, with a hesitating hand, did so. 

“Well?” Dorian said.

It _was_ good tea.  Very, very red and vaguely flower-flavored.  Anders made an affirmative noise.

“Told you so,” Dorian said.  “Well!  That’s enough talk about Tevinter and mages for now, wouldn’t you say?”

“Ah.  Uh.  Sure…”  Anders did his best to hide his face with his teacup.  It wasn’t very effective.

“Why don’t we discuss where you can go from here?” Dorian continued.  “Vivienne mentioned that you’re awaiting trial, so I can’t offer any sort of _solutions_ for you, but perhaps I’ll give you an idea of what to expect?”

  
“What?”

“How you’ll be put to _work_ , dear boy,” Dorian said.  “What you might be able to do if you’re tasked with… something or other to do with reparations.”

“Ah.”

“Not speaking through direct experience, mind you,” Dorian continued, “but my presence in the Inquisition wasn’t terribly well- _received,_ at first, and I’ve had to claw my way into favor through various good works and charm and et cetera.  You’ll likely do the same.”

“If you say so…”

“Everyone loves a redemption story,” Dorian said, with an optimistic twist in his voice.  “And, if I do say so myself, you’re _remarkably_ lucky to have Vivienne in your corner.  You’ve heard about silk purses and nug’s ears, haven’t you?  _That_ woman doesn’t make silk purses out of them; she convinces you that nug’s ears on their own are simply the _height_ of fashion, and soon enough half of Orlais is wearing them as hats.”

Anders squinted as the metaphor stumbled through his head.

“She’s very good at getting people to like you, if she’s taken a shine to you,” Dorian said, with an apologetic smile.  “Which... seems to be the case!  Though, considering who you are, I think she’s doing this just to prove she can, honestly.”

Anders was beginning to get a headache, and the hot tension in his chest was only getting worse.  “Prove she can… what, exactly?”

“Make a decent man out of an apostate so fanatical that even the rebellion didn’t want him?” Dorian said.  “If I have to put it bluntly, you’re a particularly _filthy_ nug’s ear.”

Anders’ shoulders felt almost hard as he hunched into himself, holding his arms.  The dark, comforting, bottomless warmth of worthlessness spread and filled him.

“I imagine I’m quite the challenge, then,” Anders said, quietly.  “I at least hope I’m amusing for her to work on.”

“Well, I…”  Dorian’s voice caught on the awkward silence.  “I highly doubt she sees you as nothing more than a _project_ , you know.  If that was the case, she’d be dressing you up like a doll, I’m sure.  A new outfit every day.”  There was a suggestion of laughter in Dorian’s words, but only just.

“Is there any way for you to take me back to my cell?  Or get her to do it?  I’d like to lie down for a bit.”  Anders’ voice was dull.

“Well, er, I’m not quite sure _where_ your cell is,” Dorian said, “but I’m sure the both of us can find Vivienne.  Her usual spot isn’t too far from here.”

Anders stood, but was still.  There was no way for him to know where that was, but he wasn’t going to stay.

“This way,” Dorian said, after clearing his throat, a dry knot of a frown on his mouth.

They didn’t get terribly far.  From behind, a voice reached out: “Ah, there you are, Pavus.  Hope you’re not too busy for a game of chess.”

The voice was only newly-familiar to Dorian, but Anders knew it well.  And he knew there was nothing he could do, so he turned around and let Fenris see his face.

In the space of a breath, Fenris had grabbed him by the collar and shoved him against one of the bookshelves, which cracked ominously with the force.  Fenris glowed a dangerous blue, and his teeth were bared.

“Give me one reason why I should let you live,” he said.  His voice was a hard growl of a whisper.

There was hate in Fenris’s eyes.  Hate that burned and screamed in silence.  Hate that Anders knew he deserved.

“I don’t have one,” Anders said. 

He closed his eyes, letting his body relax.  If anyone had the right to kill him, well, Fenris wasn’t a bad candidate.

“Fenris…!  Just a moment, please!”  Dorian’s voice strained with emergency decorum.

Fenris didn’t respond, but his stillness was an answer.

“If this man has harmed you in the past to the point where killing him is the only means of justice you have, then - I swear to you, I will not interfere,” Dorian said, his words even and sincere and careful.  “But - if you must, _please_ do it elsewhere.  I don’t want for blood to get on the books.”

Anders felt Fenris take one, two, three deep breaths in.  His hands tightened their grip.

“How are you here?” Fenris said.  “Why?”

“Varric.  I got a letter.  I turned myself in,” Anders said. 

“Varric…?”  Fenris’s voice was diluted by breath.

“I’ll be judged, but they should ask for my head.  If you want it, take it,” Anders continued.

Fenris didn’t take his head.  He let Anders go.  “Varric!” he yelled, storming off and slamming a door open.

“Oh, dear,” Dorian said, in a resigned sort of way.

Fenris, meanwhile, had moved to the second-floor walkway of Skyhold’s main hall, and vaulted over it to land near Varric’s writing desk.  “Varric, you _bastard!_   You told _him_ to come here?”

Varric didn’t even have to ask who “he” was.  Carefully and calmly, he put down his quill where he was writing, and he sighed.  “Well, shit,” he said.  


End file.
